Page 19 of The Prince's Mage

And then the queen was kneeling beside Nikias and screaming for a healer while Gavril carried Marcella back under the peristyle. Aimilia ripped her gaze away from Nikias as she fell into step beside Gavril. Gavril looked at her and rolled his eyes. He muttered, “—one job, Aimilia—couldn’t just look after her—if things didn’t go—that’s why I removed the runes—get in—instead you—drag her into this?”

Aimilia scoffed. “—stupid job. Take care of the girl—death?—leaping at the chance—girl who youamas—second you knew—it—No—too much—killed out of honor, and she wouldn’t thank you for it either—be angry at me and alive than dead—spend the rest of my life—happy with someone else.”

Gavril’s grip on her thighs tightened. Marcella dimly realized that Aimilia thought Marcella had taken her place as Gavril’s girl.

Marcella wasn’t so sure she hadn’t.

She also wasn’t sure what she was going to do about it.

Chapter8

MARCELLA

When Marcella woke up with a startle, it was because she didn’t remember falling asleep.

But she did jerk forward in the same bed as before—not her cell. She was starting to believe she may not be going back to it.

Whatever room this was, it seemed to be hers now. And as she looked around—once again the sun was setting—it didn’t look like it had belonged to anyone before her. There were no personal effects or touches, no décor really that she could see. She had always thought the Inimicus—especially inside their palace—would be particularly lavish in contrast to the stark, simple way the clans lived. Even the main branch of Desero wasn’t that lavish—not the way Marcella had been taught the Inimicus were. A nice bed, nice food, and nicer clothes were really the only luxuries Hypatia had. She didn’t wear any more jewelry than simple, basic pieces that any clan girl might have passed on from their mothers—with a Solitus mother, Marcella didn’t have any. Hypatia hadn’t had any decorations, not even any religious ones despite the fact that she was a seer, which meant she’d been blessed by Asentai more than anyone else. Other than her bed, the only furniture Hypatia had had was a wardrobe, a mirror, and a desk.

In Marcella’s quarters in the Desero barracks, she’d had a cot and a trunk that stored all of her belongings. And even those belongings had only taken up a third of the space of the trunk. When she’d received it upon joining the ranks as a soldier, Marcella had gaped at the size. She couldn’t imagine how she was ever going to fill it—if she ever would.

That was a problem of a day long past. Today she was in an empty Inimicus room without limiters and nowhere near her cell. And while she still felt ridiculously weak and sore, she felt better. A minuscule amount.

She could breathe for a minute, the way she hadn’t since Gavril had come into her cell, telling her he was leaving on a mission.

And now that she could breathe, she could think.

Now that she could think…

What was she doing?

She’d ended up on that table. Again. Gavril had saved her again.

And he’d tried to run away with her slung over his shoulder, knowing it would cost him his magic.

Marcella couldn’t imagine doing that for anyone.

Not after she’d spent so long cut off from her magic. Being ordered to do it? That she understood. She could follow orders to go and die for Hypatia. She couldn’t imagine condemning herself to a magicless life voluntarily.

Not for anyone.

And yet, when she’d said stay, he had. When Aimilia had shoved her into the fight and Marcella had said mercy, he’d shown it.

She was mostly certain Aimilia had been trying to tell her that Gavril loved her. And… Marcella couldn’t find any evidence to disprove it after all of that.

And yet she had her orders. She was supposed to kidnap Gavril so Hypatia could leverage him against his family. But…

Now that she knew his own father would bind his magic for running away and kill him if he had killed Nikias… would that plan even work?

She felt sick just thinking about it.

Or faint.

When was the last time she’d eaten something and not just had that drugged liquid shoved down her throat? She couldn’t recall, but the chiton covering her waist and thighs was filthy. Her hair was also disgusting. Gavril’s cloak covered her torso, although now that she was thinking clearly, she felt rather self-conscious and exposed even though she was modestly covered.

She spotted a clean garment sitting on top of the dresser, so she achingly crawled her way out of the bed and on wobbly legs with thin scars running up her skin she hadn’t had before, she made her way over to the dresser. There was also a basin of water with a rag and soap on the dresser, and she set to work cleaning her own filth off herself. She shed the ruined chiton and reluctantly unclasped the dirty cloak and let it fall to the ground.

The water was cold and harsh against her skin and aching muscles, but it was worth it to be clean again. Her scrubbing picked up in intensity the second she reached the first thin scar running over her skin. They were on her legs, her arms, her neck—the thin lines ran across the flow of her vitae. They were so thin and small maybe she could scrub them off. The skin turned raw and red, sending tinges of pain through her as she tried to scrub away the feeling of leather straps, blades, and the pervasive sensation of violation that had hung over every inch of her since the second she’d woken up on that table.

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